


the stars are out (but he’s burning brighter)

by jewishfitz



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-The Unknowing (The Magnus Archives), Pre-The Unknowing (The Magnus Archives), Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Stargazing, some coma stuff. u know how it is.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-23
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:27:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27092803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jewishfitz/pseuds/jewishfitz
Summary: a story told under the night sky, in three parts
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 11
Kudos: 69





	the stars are out (but he’s burning brighter)

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be an exercise in writing multichap fic but it transformed into something that was very much Not That. Still, enjoy!
> 
> Title is from I’m Ready To Move On/Mickey Mantle Reprise by Bleachers (w/ the pronoun changed. sorry jack :( ) Unbeta'd, all mistakes are my own.
> 
> (Additional suggested listening: Steadier Footing by Death Cab for Cutie, Light a Roman Candle with Me by fun., Chinese Satellite by Phoebe Bridgers)

Two nights before the end of the world, Martin finds himself on the roof of the institute.

He hasn’t been up here in over a year, what with everything that happened after Prentiss. Not that he’d spent much time on the roof before that either; it had always been Tim and Sasha’s place, at least in Martin’s mind. They were the ones who had always snuck up there to get out of work on Friday afternoons, to make themselves scarce whenever Jon was on a warpath about some misfiled follow-up report. But he’d joined them sometimes, laughing about whatever deeply fake statement they had to tear to shreds that week. He and Tim had been up there once or twice after Prentiss, but their time had mostly been spent sitting in silence, trapped in their own personal bubbles of trauma and frustration. Once they had discovered what was below the institute, no one really had time for what was above it.

Martin isn’t sure why he’s here. Call it an instinct– or maybe, more accurately, an escape. The silence in the archives as everyone prepares to either go to Yarmouth or stay behind is oppressive, blanketing the whole area like a thick fog. Martin doesn’t think it’s a nice place to spend what might be one of his last nights on earth.

So he’d climbed the stairs, roundly ignored the do-not-enter sign, and pushed open the heavy metal fire door.

An empty roof at night might be one of those things that sounds better in theory and in poems than it actually is in real life. The space is transformed by the darkness, becoming alien to Martin, who'd only ever been up there during the day. The cold air greets him like an old friend, surrounding and embracing him. Shivering, he lets the heavy door slam shut behind him.

He hears a loud curse come from somewhere in front of him and, as Martin’s eyes adjust, he sees the shape of someone sitting crossed-legged in the darkness of the roof in front of him, readjusting after being thoroughly startled.

There’s only one person it could be, really. “Jon?”

“Martin?” Jon’s voice calls back. “What are you doing up here?”

He shrugs, unsure of how to answer. “The archives got a bit too claustrophobic.” 

Jon hums in understanding, moving to get up. “I can leave. I mean, if you want to be alone I can–”

“No!” Martin is surprised by the loudness of his voice. “I, um– I don’t think I want to be alone right now, if you don’t mind the company.”

Jon pauses for a long, tense second, frozen mid-action, before settling back down on the roof. “Okay, I don’t mind.”

Martin joins Jon where he’s sat, a safe distance away from the edge, facing the bustling street and the Chelsea night. He sits—legs uncrossed, leaning back on his arms—with what he thinks is a respectable and unassuming amount of space between him and Jon.

Things had been… different, to say the least, since Jon had returned from the circus. Even more so since Jon had returned from America, and the whole “apocalypse” thing had really kicked into high gear. It’s not _bad_ different, not necessarily. It’s just… different. Jon is a little quieter now, a little more cautious around him. Martin would have killed for a gentleness like that at one point. He’s still grateful for it, but now it's just another reminder of how much he has to lose, how much they all have to lose. He can’t properly enjoy it, think about it, consider it, with all this over their heads.

The silence between them is awkward, for a long stagnate moment, before Martin breaks it. “I didn’t know you knew about this place.”

Jon scoffs. “Of course I knew. Tim and I used to come up here all the time back when we were in research.” He gets a look in his eyes, then. Something like grief and longing swirling together, and Martin finds himself looking at the ground instead of Jon. The concrete of the roof is ice cold.

“I didn’t know that,” Martin says, picking at the loose threads of his jeans.

Jon shrugs again. “Well, now you do.” He sighs. “I wasn’t always so-” He gestures vaguely, searching for a word.

“Pretentious?” Martin offers.

Jon laughs, a sharp bark that cuts through the cold night air. “No, not that. I’ve always been pretentious. I guess–” He tilts his head, considering. “Uptight. I haven’t always been uptight.”

Martin scoffs. “Now _that_ I find hard to imagine.”

Jon gets a little indignant, at that. “Don’t say that. You never knew me when I was fun to be around.”

Martin frowns. “Don’t say _that._ You weren’t–”

“You don’t have to lie, Martin,” Jon says, a little exasperated and mostly resigned.

“I wasn’t going to. You weren’t always terrible. You know that, right?” Martin says, shaking his head.

Jon starts fiddling with the sleeve of his jumper. “Hard to believe.”

“You had your moments.” He pauses, weighing the pros and cons of being honest. He continues, because, really, if you can’t tell the truth at the end of the world, when can you? 

“Last year, during Prentiss, when you told me I could stay at the institute, you–” He organizes his thoughts. Jon is listening intently now, and Martin can feel his gaze without looking over at him. “You made me feel like a person again, for a bit. You made me feel a little bit safer.” The confession feels too big and too small, all at the same time. “You were kind, and it helped.”

“Martin–”

He barrels on, because he’s never really known when to quit. “You’re a good person, Jon. Not always, but when it counts.” He laughs. “I never thanked you for that, for helping me out back then, so– thank you, I guess.”

“Martin,” Jon says again, and at this Martin looks over at him. Jon’s looking back, face open in a way he’s never really seen before. Jon has always had beautiful eyes, warm and brown with flecks of gold, and in the dim light of the roof they seem to shine. Martin is struck, suddenly, by the desire to kiss him, consequences be damned. He doesn’t.

When Jon speaks again, Martin can tell he’s putting every ounce of himself into the words. “Thank you and- and I’m sorry. For how I used to treat you.”

Martin laughs awkwardly, desperate to diffuse the painfully sincere situation he’s created. “Thanks. And no problem, just being honest.” He smiles, his nerves catching up to him. “Speaking of honesty, y’know Tim and Sasha used to come up here all the time to avoid you, right?”

Jon, mercifully, looks back out at the street and night sky, and hums in acknowledgement. “I do. They weren’t nearly as stealthy as they thought they were.”

Martin chuckles. “Yeah.” The air hangs with some unspoken, unspeakable grief.

Martin looks up, then, searching for something unknown in the sky above them. Only a small handful of lights dot the sky. London has never had the best stars, with its rampant light pollution and all. The city below is far brighter than anything in the sky.

Jon speaks, abruptly, like the words are clawing their way out of him, moving almost imperceptibly closer to Martin. “You made me feel like a human too, you know? After Prentiss.” Martin tears his gaze away from the sky. Jon looks almost shy, a little bit nervous and very earnest. “Bringing me food and tea, making sure I left at the end of the day. You helped keep me grounded when everything else was slipping away.”

Martin doesn’t know what to do with that. Something stutters in his chest, and suddenly the roof doesn’t feel all that cold. “I, um– Thank you, Jon.”

Jon looks conflicted, unsure of what to say. “You’ve- You- Well, you’ve always been the best of us.”

Martin laughs, quiet but true. He feels lighter than air, the feeling inside him bigger than the sky and all its stars. “Thanks. Not sure if that’s true, but thanks.”

“Martin,” Jon says, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. “If- when I get back, when this is all over, we could– we could go somewhere nice, together. A restaurant, or-”

“Don’t. Please, don’t.” Jon’s entire face shuts down, the lights go off, no one is home. Martin backtracks, wildly. “No- I mean- it’s not-” He lets out a frustrated sigh and flops back against the cool concrete of the roof. He finds himself looking up at the few stars he can see instead of Jon. “It’s not that I’m not interested. Not that at all.” He can feel Jon go rigid next to him, and fights back against the blood rushing to his face. “It’s just that... I don’t want to do this right now. I don’t want you to make any promises you might regret.”

“Martin,” Jon says, distorting his name with the sincerity in his voice. Had it always sounded like that when Jon spoke it, so safe and treasured? Surely Martin would have noticed something like that by now. “You’re not- I’m not- it wouldn’t be-”

“Doesn’t matter, does it? Even if I’m not-” he gestures vaguely, eyes still fixed on the stars. “It’s still right before the end of the world. I don’t- I can’t- what if-” Martin stops to collect his thoughts. Jon lets him. “If you come back from Yarmouth and tell me it was all an adrenaline-fueled last-chance confession- If you come back and tell me that you made a mistake- I’m-” he quiets. “I don’t think I’ll be able to go back to the way things are now. I don’t think I’ll be able to go back at all.” 

How do you tell someone they have the power to destroy you? Martin trusts Jon, implicitly, stupidly, but it’s hard to feel comfortable showing someone your achilles heel.

Jon is quiet for a long moment, before clearing his throat. “I, um- I understand. If you want me to, er, sleep on it, as it were. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it.”

“Thanks.” Martin’s voice feels hollow. He knows he made the right choice deep down, but Jon’s leg is warm and just brushing his and he thinks that maybe, if he just concentrates hard enough, he can feel his molecules coming apart, his very being coming undone at the seams.

“For the record, though,” Jon says, voice shy again. “It’s not- that’s not what you are, to me.” Jon laughs. It’s warm but still achingly tired. “I spent three weeks trying to find the perfect organizational tabs for the archives. Do you really think I would rush into something as important as you?”

Martin feels like he’s floating, like he can feel his atoms rearranging. “I mean, you say that, but you’re also the guy who dove headfirst into some mysterious tunnels when you were barely off bedrest.”

He can practically hear Jon roll his eyes. “Completely different situation.” He slumps a little, like the exhaustion of the past few days is finally hitting him. Gracelessly, he flops down next to Martin on the cold and unforgiving concrete, wincing a little. They’re quiet for a moment, letting the sounds of the city fill in all the blanks, the many unsaid things.

“Stay safe, won’t you?” Jon says. Martin is thrown by the pleading note in his voice, and smiles. 

“I’ll try my best.” He turns to look at Jon, eyes widening when he finds that Jon is already looking back at him. Martin stutters silently for a moment before continuing. Jon is quite close now. “You too.” He winces at how genuine he sounds, but Jon nods like it’s the most serious thing in the world. Martin thinks for a moment, before deciding to fuck it all, reaching his hand across the concrete roof to grab Jon’s. It is cold and scared and undeniably human, made more so by Jon’s audible inhalation at the touch.

“Come back to me.” It’s unfair of Martin to say it, really, because Jon has very little power over whether or not he does anything these days. But Martin says it anyway, because he’s always believed that the universe is kind, fear gods be damned, and that it listens in from time to time, straining its gigantic cosmic ear. If the universe can hear him, maybe it’ll obey him, just this once. There are no shooting stars visible in London for him to wish upon.

Jon just looks at him, nothing short of stricken, and nods. He gives Martin’s hand one squeeze and whispers softly. “I will.”

They’re quiet, after that. With so many unknowns in the mix, there’s no stable ground here to stand on. The concrete is harsh and freezing. The wailing of traffic drowns out all other noise. The scant few stars in the sky are barely visible through the haze of smog. With Jon’s hand in his, it’s a perfect moment, or as perfect as they’ll get. Martin wants to trap it in amber, or in a jar with holes to let it breathe. He knows he can’t, so he lets the moment pass. Still no shooting stars in the sky.

* * *

_beep - beep - beep_

The worst part of hospitals are their noises. The machines, the chattering of nurses and doctors, quiet footsteps on linoleum floors, doors swinging open and shut. It sounds like no other place on earth.

Martin can’t escape. Even if he closes his eyes, the hospital still haunts him.

_beep - beep - beep_

The thing is, he doesn’t have to be here. He’s been told that multiple times, by multiple people who are really proving to be quite sensible and whose opinions he should probably trust. He stays, though, because, as sad and pathetic as it is, he really has nowhere else to be.

Martin had never really thought of himself as someone with an affinity for the Eye, just as someone who took the wrong job at the wrong time. He’s beginning to revise that opinion, though. Now, sitting in a chair at the bedside of a dying man, he understands the true terror of bearing witness.

Martin can leave. Martin doesn’t leave. Martin waits. Martin watches.

_beep - beep - beep_

_Grief is an amputation, hope is like hemophilia,_ or something like that. It’s a quote Martin saw somewhere a long time ago. He had thought he understood it, then. Wanting so badly to be allowed to let go of something, someone, when all you can do is hang on tight. He understands it more now than he ever did.

If hope is like hemophilia, Martin may just bleed out on the hospital floor. Which is fitting, really.

_beep - beep - beep_

The Jonathan Sims in front of him is barely recognizable as the Jonathan Sims who left that fateful August day for Yarmouth. Unconsciousness, the hospital gown and oxygen mask they have on him– all of these things reduce him to… something else. _Someone_ else. A stranger on a sterile bed. Martin feels horribly disconnected. He doesn’t leave.

His hair is shot through with grey, in need of a trim. Apparently dying doesn’t stop your hair from growing. That’s what the kindly nurse had told him, the one who knows his name and gives him pitying looks when she thinks Martin isn’t looking. He doesn’t blame her. There’s an awful lot to pity.

He looks… small. Vulnerable. Jon alive was all sharp angles, prickly exterior, bright colors to ward off predators. Jon dead is pale, washed out, still in a quiet white hospital gown. It feels wrong, deep in the pit of Martin’s stomach. The wrongness seeps out from the cupboards and from under the bed. It gets everywhere, in his head and in his heart and in his shitty hospital tea. The wrong bathes and tints everything, like a floodlight.

_beep - beep - beep_

Martin can only see three stars through the hospital’s window. They are small, dim things; not fit to wish on. They look like they’re dying as well.

Stars die like humans do. Martin remembers this, faintly, from secondary school. They burn out, eventually, once they’ve used up all their fuel. They burn up, they _burn_ and _explode_ taking _everything with them_ and God, Tim is dead, Jon went like a supernova taking a whole constellation of people and things with him and why are dying stars so _cruel,_ why do they have to _take everything with them, Tim, oh God, Tim–_

And yet, Jon is still here. Stars die like humans do: slowly, inch by inch, clinging to life with claws of iron and carbon.

_beep - beep - beep_

Martin also remembers that stars have ghosts, in a sense. The light from stars takes longer to reach the earth the farther away they are, so there are plenty of dead stars that continue to shine, from humanity’s perspective. They’re gone, long gone, and yet they persist in the night sky. A ghostly image, an astronomical haunting.

Jon lays before him, dead in all but name only. Martin watches. Is this what it feels like, to be haunted? Martin isn’t scared. He’s just tired.

_beep - beep - beep_

“Come back to me.” He says it just to feel the sound, to taste the words on his tongue. He says it because he’s tried everything else, because he’s earned the right to think a little magically now and then

The sound tastes bitter in his mouth. Martin watches for any sign of movement, repeating the words, changing them into a hushed incantation, a babble of sound that slowly begins to lose its meaning. He watches, because, in the end, isn’t that all he can really do?

_beep - beep - beep_

Nothing happens. The stars stay dead, and Jon does too.

* * *

Martin wakes with a start to an empty bed and a full moon shining through the window.

He’d been having a nightmare—no, not a nightmare, just a strange dream—and it takes him a moment to reorient himself. Scotland. Cottage. Safehouse. Jon. Jon?

The bed is empty and the sheets are cold.

Martin doesn’t panic because, honestly, he’s far too tired for that. Being alone can only distress you so much before it just gets boring. Still, he gets up, stretches, puts on a jumper, and shuffles out of the bedroom.

Jon’s not in the kitchen, or the bathroom or the living room, and now Martin is maybe starting to feel a little nervous. The night is cold, but he has nowhere left to look, so he opens the door to check outside.

He can just barely see the shape of Jon, lit only by the moon, sitting on the grass in front of the cottage with his back to one of the outer walls. Jon notices him, and waves him over.

“Why’d you wander off?” Martin asks, as he sits down next to Jon on the grass.

Jon sighs, and looks down. There’s something worn and tired in his voice. “Couldn’t sleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Oh.” He has a sudden flash, the mental image of Jon gently tucking the blanket around him, being careful to close the door quietly, avoiding all the creaky bits of the hallway. They’re small considerations, but they make his heart swell. “Thanks.”

Jon shrugs. “Not a problem.”

Jon looks back up, and Martin follows his gaze. The stars are dazzling, given the darkness of the fields around them. Martin thinks he can even spot the Milky Way, shimmering like a dark river.

“The stars are beautiful out here,” Martin says. It doesn’t feel like nearly enough.

Jon has a far-away look in his eye. Martin places a hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” he whispers. “Come back to me.”

Jon blinks back into the present. “Sorry. Just thinking.”

Martin tilts his head. “Normal thinking or spooky thinking?” He doesn’t move his hand, because that’s something they can do now, exchange casual touches, and Martin doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, not when it makes him feel like he’s glowing, lighting up from the inside out.

Jon rolls his eyes, warm and fond. “Normal thinking. About the stars.” He pauses. “We’re made up of the same things as them, iron and carbon and the like. They change like us, too, growing and transforming while remaining the same. It’s just, I don’t know–” Jon sighs. “It’s nice to feel connected to something like that, to something that...” He pauses, searching for the word. “Eternal.”

_“Beautiful”,_ Martin thinks. _The word you’re looking for is “beautiful” and you are, more than you know._

“It’s a lovely night,” Jon says. “Shame about the full moon. The stars would have been brighter without it, I think.”

“Still, better than London.” Martin removes his hand, shifting closer to Jon. He can feel him relax next to him, an almost imperceptible exhale, tension draining away.

They sit in a peaceful quiet for a moment, before Martin speaks. “You remember the last time we did this, stargaze?”

Jon nods, and Martin can feel the motion.

“I, um–” Martin feels a little bit nervous, despite it all. “I really wanted to kiss you, that night on the roof. I know- I know why I didn’t, but I still regret…” He trails off.

Jon raises an eyebrow at him. “Not kissing me?” His tone is teasing, with something far softer underneath it.

Martin nods, and he can feel the blush rising on his cheeks despite the cold weather. “Not kissing you, yeah.”

“Well,” says Jon, sweet and faux-annoyed. “I guess we’ll just have to make up for lost time then, won’t we?”

Martin smiles and, just like the last time, he feels like he’s coming undone, like Jon’s pulling on a string and eventually he’ll just unravel into a pile of Martin-shaped yarn. “I suppose so.”

Jon smiles back—and it’s blinding, how can he complain about the moon when he shines like this?—and leans in.

It’s quick, just a soft brush of lips, but Jon smells like lavender and he has one hand twisted in Martin’s jumper and when he leans in again he tilts his head and tugs Martin forward slightly and before he can kiss him again (kiss him _again)_ Martin bursts into a fit of giggles.

Jon looks somewhat affronted, and it’s really, _really,_ cute. “What?”

Martin takes a deep breath, calming himself. “It’s nothing, I’m just–” He breaks into a grin, the kind so big it makes it hard to talk. “I’m happy. I’m just- I’m really happy. With you,” he adds, like he could be talking about anything else.

“Oh,” Jon says, quietly, like the thought hadn’t occurred to him. He smiles back, soft, expression filled with something like wonder. “Oh. Alright, then.”

They both lean back in at the same time, Martin’s hand coming up to cup Jon’s cheek, and Martin is thinking about binary systems, stars that orbit a common center of gravity, that dance around each other for millions of years before they finally merge into something new and it must be lonely, to be so close yet so far for so long but it must be glorious to finally collide and–

Jon’s lips find his, and Martin’s head is filled with supernovas, the iron in his veins singing like stardust, the skin of Jon’s cheek warm like sunlight under his fingers.

And neither of them see it but, far above their heads, a shooting star streaks its bright arc through the night sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> \- The full quote mentioned in part 2 is “grief is an amputation, but hope is incurable haemophilia: you bleed and bleed and bleed”, from Slade House by David Mitchell.  
> \- The whole stardust thing in part 3 is lightly inspired by a quote from Nikita Gill, but also it's just a really cool part of astronomy/chemistry/science/whatever  
> \- For the record, I know I fudged the science on binary stars, I know binary supernovae are a lot more complex than that, please don’t @ me, I did it for the metaphor.
> 
> If you’re interested in more stargazing safehouse fic, check out [new constellations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24306106) by [sapphicbecca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphicbecca/pseuds/sapphicbecca) or [brand new colony](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23313898) by yours truly!
> 
> Find me on tumblr [@nojoyinmudville](https://nojoyinmudville.tumblr.com/) for more nonsense! I’m working on a lot of different WIPs atm, so if you want to keep up with my work tumblr is the best place to do so.


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